Women Drivers

I wouldn’t describe myself as a “car person.” I like them, and in my city they’re pretty much a necessity. No one, and I do mean no one, cherishes the idea of walking to and then sitting at the bus stop when it’s 108°, then being smashed against a stranger for the length of your daily commute, someone who may not hold personal hygiene to your same level of high regard. But, as I reflect on my automobile history, I am, I must admit, somewhat of a car snob, not to the brand of the car per se, but the type.

No, it’s true, though I am ashamed to admit it, but honest enough to say that the shame is probably not enough to overcome the habit.  You ask me what kind of car?  Well, a sports car.  (Is there really any other kind worth the admission?)

The first car that I purchased for myself was a beautiful black Nissan 240 SX convertible, and there was no looking back. I was hooked on the “sports car.” I won’t bore you with the mundane timeline of my auto buying, but from that dazzling moment I began the search for my “holy grail of the highway”, the Porsche Boxster S in navy blue with a navy roof, and grey leather interior. This progression from the Nissan to the Porsche took time, years in fact, and endless internet searching. For, while I may be a car snob, I am not a rich car snob, nor a foolish one. I was not about to shell out the cash for a brand new, show-room-floor-sheltered, 2 miles on the odometer, baby. Finally, in 2008, I found it –  three years old, and it was perfect and lovely and exactly what I wanted.  And, the best thing: I could afford it.

I loved that car. I loved the sound of the engine, the way it responded with barely a touch to the steering wheel. I loved driving with the top down and the wind whipping through my hair. I loved the rural Arizona highways and their curves and turns and the rush of driving at the upper edge of the “allowable” over-the-speed-limit limit. (In real life there’s nothing dare-devilish about me at all. Hmmmh…) Let me say this in all caps so that my brother gets it loud and clear: I NEVER HAD AN ACCIDENT. Yes, my friends, in all the times I was driving that car  a little beyond what was wise or safe, I never even scratched the fender.

Now, let me tell you about how that same fender did end up with a scratch. Totally not my fault.

Sunday, a late winter afternoon, sketchy – I’ll repeat that for good measure, sketchy, neighborhood, empty streets. I decided to take a shortcut through that sketchy neighborhood. Bad idea, but I’m brave (read that as naive), and I thought, ‘Hey, sun’s still up, no one’s around, what can it hurt?’ (What can I say? Naive is sort of cute, right?) Stop shaking your head.

So, I was stopped at a red light. There was no one else on the road. The businesses, mainly title loans, body shops, llantera mercados, etc., all closed. I was tapping my fingers on the steering wheel keeping time to the stereo when I glanced up in the rearview. Barreling down on me was a large white Ford pick-up with a full-size refrigerator standing up-right in its bed. This was not looking good for me or my precious car.

There was no one coming through the intersection, and the right side was completely fenced off.  The Ford was not slowing down. So, I took my foot off the brake and whispered a prayer. When he hit me, he simply pushed me through the intersection to the other side of the street. I pulled into the adjacent parking lot, and the Ford’s driver did the same. I said another little prayer, and then opened my door to get out. The pick-up driver did not. Well, I don’t know if he was praying, but he didn’t get out of his truck. I kind of doubt he was praying because when he finally climbed down from the truck, greasy hair streaming from his grungy ball cap, dirty flannel shirt untucked from his stained jeans, a joint was hanging from his lips, and a cloud of marijuana smoke exited the cab with him. His eyes were glassy, and he stumbled a little. He seemed a teensy bit unclear about why he had pulled over.

I reached back into my car and grabbed my phone. Cautiously, but with my best Southern Girl smile, I approached the Pot Head (PH). “Hi, I’m Rachael. You just hit my car. We need to exchange insurance information.”

PH stared at me. He had not a clue what I had just said. He began scratching at his face. I was starting to think pot was not his only vice. And I was getting nervous. I repeated my request for insurance info.

“Oh, uh yeah. Insurance.” PH finally said through his dazed condition.

“Yes, insurance. Do you have any?” I was talking slowly and softly, like I did with mental patients and teenagers when I was still a nurse. (Those of you with teens, try it, it works.) PH nodded and turned back to the truck while I waited by my bumper which didn’t appear too badly damaged, surprisingly enough.

I waited. I waited, and I waited, and I waited some more. Finally, I walked toward the truck, but I called out to PH that I was coming, thought it best not to make sudden moves, also out of the playbook for teenagers and mental patients. He didn’t respond. When I got to the door of the truck I saw why: he was busy rolling another joint. He’d totally forgotten why he’d gone back to the truck. Well, this was not productive for me, for him, yes, for me, no. I went to the back of the truck and snapped a picture of his license plate, then returned to the truck door where he sat calmly (Of course, he was calm.) smoking his new joint.

“Uhm, sir, can I get that insurance information?”

He stared at me confused.

“You hit my car, remember? That’s why we’re here in this parking lot.” I was proud of myself – I was still calm, probably the second hand pot.

He smiled dreamily. “Oh, yeah.” He reached for the glove box, and I slowly, less calmly backed away toward my car, but what he retrieved was, thank you God, a piece of paper announcing itself in boldface, to be a temporary proof of insurance for a woman named Donna*. Huh.

“Uhm,” how does one ask this appropriately in this day and age of anything goes? “Well, sir, you don’t happen to be Donna, do you?”

PH puffed away without answering. It must have been a time delay in synapse function because about a minute went by before he said, “Donna. Donna? No. I’m Tom*.” That was it. No explanation of who Donna was, why he had Donna’s proof of insurance, etc.

“Tom, who’s Donna?”

“Donna? Oh, Donna. My sister.” Puff, puff. Silence.

“Tom, is the truck Donna’s?”

“Donna’s truck? Yeah, Donna has a truck.” Puff, puff. Silence.

“Tom, is the truck you’re driving today with the refrigerator in the back Donna’s truck? The white truck that you just ran into my car with?”

“I ran into your car with Donna’s truck?” This time when he puffed he turned to look at the truck and then at my car. “Well, yeah, I guess it was.”

“Does Donna know you have her truck?”

“Uh, I think so?” He looked at me questioningly. Somehow I think this would come as a surprise to Donna. I gave up the questions and wrote down Donna’s information as Tom happily smoked up his joint. I handed back the insurance info along with a copy of mine. He climbed into his truck and drove away as I began to say that I thought we needed to call the police. (You can see why he wouldn’t want to, right?)

As I was in the sketchiest of sketchy neighborhoods with a Porsche and the sun was sinking, I hopped in my car and started the engine as I called my then husband and told him the story. He insisted I stay where I was and call the police. Heck with that! I’m 5’0″ tall, weigh , well we won’t discuss that, and driving what had been an expensive car. I was leaving to find someplace safe. And the PH was long gone. What were the police going to do? I hung up and started home. My phone rang a few seconds later; it was a lovely woman from police dispatch who said my husband had called her; she then told me to find a place I felt safe to pull over. She stayed on the phone until I did and then sent some nice, young policemen to take a report.

So, as I sat and waited for the police, I thought about PH and wondered about his story. At worst the truck was stolen, and we’d pay the deductible to fix my car, and whoever Donna was would have to report her truck (and maybe her refrigerator???) stolen. Finally, the Phoenix police SUV pulled in, and 2 officers who looked young enough to be my sons climbed out, both wearing the ubiquitous mirrored sunglasses, both hiking up their gun belts as if on cue. They motioned for me to roll down my window.

First words out of cop #1’s mouth: “Was he really smoking a joint when he hit you?”

First words out of cop #2’s mouth: “And did he really roll a second one right in front of you?”

Then Laurel and Hardy laughed together, and #1 (or it could have been #2 because, really, when they’re baby cops don’t they all look alike?) said “Classic!”

So many lessons came to me from this story. (Don’t worry.  I’ll only share three.)  The first one is protection. I never, ever should have been in that neighborhood, and my own naiveté could have caused me severe harm. But it didn’t, and it’s not because I was instantly made street smart or tough. Instead, I was allowed to see empty streets, finding myself alone with a man who could have been extremely dangerous but wasn’t, and at the time it was happening no one knew where I was. But I was kept safe. I WAS KEPT SAFE.

I was reminded to be compassionate. Whatever Tom’s story, to get to the place he exists now, must have involved some really awful things, whether they be choices he made or choices made for him. When I step out my front door every day, I’m  encounter people who have back stories that would cause me night terrors, and those hurting, aching individuals have to live with their memories every moment of every day, not out of choice but out of necessity. We are surrounded by people with gaping, yawning wounds that if we could but see, we would be able to understand their motivations to drink, to abuse themselves and others, to use drugs. Let me be clear: I’m not advocating excusing the behavior, but loving (safely) in spite of it.

Finally, my third lesson. With age comes wisdom. I’ll never again choose the shortcut (Please God!)  through the bad neighborhood late on a Sunday afternoon. As those two baby cops age, I sincerely doubt they will continue to think it’s appropriate to joke about someone driving while high (I could be wrong. I don’t always understand cop humor.) The female dispatcher who called me was older, and she knew my sanity and my safety were both important, and she quickly assured me that she valued both.

Interestingly enough, all three of these lessons are things that God offers to us when we ask: protection, compassion, and wisdom. I confess, that day, the moment I knew the truck wasn’t going to stop, in my whispered prater, it was for these three I asked. He heard, He listened, and He answered.

*Names have been changed.